


Of Merit and Poultry

by bloodofthepen



Series: Blood and Shadow [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-10 19:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodofthepen/pseuds/bloodofthepen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cicero and the Listener have an unfortunate misadventure beginning with chickens and ending with a trowel. Humorous Oneshot, but not crack.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Revised 2/24/17</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Merit and Poultry

**Author's Note:**

> PROMPT: "I didn't mean to kill your chicken"
> 
> Revised 2/24/17 for clarity, minor errors, and dialogue/character adjustments

It is a peaceful, little homestead. Remote. Well-off from the main path in the lee of that mountain most called the Throat of the World. There is a fenced-in garden more than large enough to feed the household, a cow, a coop of chickens. The little estate would escape the notice of most thieves, but the strange, motley pair approaching from the road has no interest in theft, but has come to perform a _service_. For now, however, it's the handsome hens which have their attention.

"Oh, not even the Listener can hit a target that small at this distance."

Valasca halted their progress immediately, in the dead center of the dirt path. The chickens in question are little more than white tufts at nearly one-hundred paces. "Cicero, you've _witnessed_  me make better shots."

The fool giggles. "Yes, but _those_ were guided by the will of Sithis on missions of sacred importance to the Brotherhood."

"You and I both know Sithis is not some benevolent hand that aids anyone—not even the Night Mother. Everything I do is—"

"But the Night Mother's fate was the will of Sithis, so you can't prove that."

Valasca folded her arms over the blood-red mark on her leathers. "I work on my own merit without the blessings of any god. If anything, they all seem to make my life more  _difficult_ —"

"Cicero thinks the Listener is just chicken."

She snatches the ebony bow from her back. "I will wipe that smug grin from your face." Valasca knows she will not; she is well aware that silly expression is damnably  _permanent_ , but it's the principle of the thing. "What do you have to wager? You can barely shoot." That's not entirely true, and they both know it.

But the fool halts in the midst of a celebratory jig, one foot still balanced at waist-level. "Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm… Ah! _If_ the Listener can pierce the fowl, Cicero will fulfill the contract with a trowel."

"A trowel, Cicero? Bad rhymes will do you no service."

His pout is anything but convincing. "Cicero could do it."

Valasca rolls her eyes. "Fine. I don't care how you do it, but when I hit this chicken, you shall take care of the work while I find something to drink."

The Listener nocks a thin arrow to her bow, one she had fletched herself for a long-distance assassination (most certainly _not_ for hunting chickens), and attempts to ignore the nerve-grating giggle as she lines up her shot. The arrow leaves her hand with barely a whistle.

It strikes the unfortunate beast, of course.

"Oh, _good shot_ , Listener!" The motley fool turns a somersault in the direction of the homestead. "It seems Cicero will have to make good on his end of the bargain!"

A frown tugs at the corner of Valasca's lips as she replaces her weapon. "Somehow, I think you just wanted the contract."

"And the clever Listener would be correct!"

"Damn fool." But Cicero just cackles and starts on one of his lyrics, giving Valasca half a mind to knock the cap off his head. "Just have it done."

"As you say!"

He wastes no time in creeping toward the homestead, and the Listener follows, keeping close to the lengthening shadows as the fool dodges out of sight. Stones and tall grasses provide plenty of cover, not that the Listener particularly needs it, having grown quite adept at—

"Ay, you there!"

Valasca freezes, but does not panic. Cicero is well out of the way. If remains still, the peasant is likely to think it was a trick of the light. There is no way—

"You need to pay for that chicken."

Damn. No matter. She rises, adopts a casual stance, making quite sure the blood-red handprint on her chest is quite readily visible. Her face is shrouded; as long as Cicero got the job done, the sighting will not be problem. Now… blind terror from the peasant upon realization that he was shouting at a member of the Dark Brotherhood in three, two—

"Don't you have better things to do besides shoot my chickens?"

"What?"

"Oo—very eloquent, Listener."

And Cicero had indeed _not_ gone ahead. Brilliant.

"I know what the sign means. It means you have much better things to do than kill my chickens." The peasant approached her directly, but stayed a little more than arm's length from both assassins—just close enough for Valasca to see the pendant hanging from a chain on his neck.

"Nocturnal." It makes sense now.

"Can't hide in the shadows from one with the Lady's favor. Now pay up fair, and I'll be on my way." There is a sword at his waist; apparently he does not have cabbage for a brain.

"I did not intend to kill your chicken. I had been tracking a fox up the hill and my aim was unfortunately off."

"Nothing but lies in my bonny lass' eyes, but she cannot fool me when she's strung from a tree."

Valasca sent a cutting glare at the fool. "You'll have to forgive him; he is of a dull wit."

"Happy to play the fool is Cicero, but stoop to dullard, he'll not go! I sharpen wit as I sharpen knives."

"Don't you have a debt to pay?"

" _You_ do." The peasant opens his hand.

"Indeed, indeed! Cicero shall depart."

Valasca clenches her teeth. Her hand hovers between her purse and her knife.

"Five septims. I'm sure it won't hurt your purse at all."

She tosses the coin, careless of where it lands, but the peasant catches it without stooping.

"Thank you." The peasant pockets the gold. "I'm sure you have business. Favor of Nocturnal to your endeavor." He turns to follow the path back to the homestead, upon which Cicero had already disappeared.

The pressure of a knife sinking between ribs is quite pleasurable, for the one wielding it, and the _snick_ as flesh tries in vain to stick to the blade is terribly satisfying. Valasca does not bother with the septims when the peasant breathes his last; she cleans her knife on his tunic and yanks the pendant from his neck. She twirls the silver chain around one finger.

"My own merit," she tells it.

"Careful, Listener, or people may think you're mad."

Valasca slips the disc and chain into her purse. "Have you finished?"

A scream from the direction of the farmhouse.

"Yes," is the smug reply.

She arches an high, golden eyebrow. "With the trowel?"

Cicero rocks back and forth on his heels like a schoolboy. "The very one he was using."

"Disemboweled with the trowel?" Sweet Sithis she was spending too much time with him.

The fool's eyes glitter. "Ooooo! Delightful, but no. Just through the neck."

"We'll just leave that out of the report to Nazir. I doubt he would be thrilled I let you do it."

"And the chicken?" Cicero waggles his brows. 

" _Definitely_ no chicken. If you breathe even a word of this to anyone, I will be sure to test that disemboweling trick on you."

Cicero's grin grows all the wider. "Not a word, Listener. Not a word."


End file.
